( CHAPTER THREE: CALL OF THE BEAST )
March, 1998

❝ he doesn't deserve the success. ❞

TRIGGER WARNING: drugs, suicide mentioned.

◯

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone," Devon's car radio blared loudly against the dashboard. The melody — a groovy mid-tempo chorus with Joni Mitchell's vocals — echoed in sync with Qtip's rhythmic ad libs. Occasionally, when the song dipped out of the chorus, he heard Janet's soft voice, singing verses that left so much to the imagination. Verses about regret, turning back the clock— and the words made him wonder.

"If I could turn back the hands of time I'd make you fall in love, in love with me again..." she sung, smoothly moving through each verse, "So would you give me another chance to love to love you in the right way no games..."

Got til' it's gone...

Devon upper lip stiffened conflictingly, his eyes trained on the windshield as he shifted in the passenger seat.

"That was Janet Jackson's hit single, Got Til' It's Gone, a song rumoured to be about her ex-boyfriend, actor Devon Em—"

Devon switched channels, cutting short the radio's static words. Beside him, his personal driver glanced his way, a subtle gesture that let Devon know, that he noticed the rather odd switch in the dancer's demeanour. However, Devon could not play it off this time.

Instead, he focussed his attention on the road. It was a warm morning, with humidity and thick winds. Los Angeles revelled in the heat, which made Devon sweat beneath his suit collar, still not used to the scorching temperatures on the west coast. However, the dancer was too proud to admit that the sweat tickling down his brow was more so due to nerves, rather than heat.

He wasn't looking forward to today. While he found that throughout these passing months— he found it harder and harder to lift himself out of bed — today seemed to be particularly doubtful. All in all, what good could come of seeing his ex-wife again?

Devon bit his coarse knuckles, leaning on the edge of his armrest as the black car rolled to a leisured stop on the side of a clean, pastel curb. He has arrived.

"We're here, Mr. Emmet," Devon's driver said, "Your lawyer's already inside."

Of course he was.

"Thank you," Devon curtly said, cracking open the door.

He stepped out, buttoning up his suit jacket as he gazed at the building that stood before him. The courthouse was a large, structured piece of architecture, one that sat in front of a multitude of white steps. He was fully familiar with the place, having been there for his previous divorce proceedings.

Now, several weeks in and a knot kinked between his shoulders — Devon considered himself burnt out. He didn't quite like coming back to this place, but it had to be done.

So, with a deep, leisured breath, he jogged up the steps, wiping away the sweat glittering his brow. He knew this wouldn't be pleasant. He knew when he walked back out, he would be beaten to a pulp. The ways of the heart were brutal, and when a home comes crashing down, only one person comes out unscathed.

Devon, however? He would forever be blue and bruised.

◯

"Mr. Emmet!" Devon's lawyer struggled to keep up with the dancer's wide, enraged strides. He spoke of possibilities and false hopes, but all in all, the dancer couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

That court hearing was a complete and utter disaster. It didn't reassure Devon's beliefs nor soothe any of his worries. Instead, it only caused a deeper rift in what was already a painful and ill-wished divorce. It was laughable that Devon once thought he could pry himself out of this union unscathed.

He stormed out of the courtroom, polished shoes stomping heavily on the marble floor, wanting nothing more than to stop and punch a hole in the wall. However, as always, he kept his emotions at bay— to an extent.

"Mr. Emmet, slow down!" The lawyer picked up his pace. A man — normally preserved, cool and collected — galloped after the star with growing aggravation. Devon wasn't slowing down nor heeding at his voice.

Instead, the male walked through the pristine hallway and approached the golden elevators perched against the granite walls. He skidded to an angered stop, his jaw straining from locking it so much.

"I hired you because you were the best attorney in the country," Devon started, glaring coldly into the distance. The man came to stand by Devon's side, his briefcase tightly bunched in his sweaty hands.

"So why couldn't you do anything right today?!" Devon asked, his head snapping to the primmed man. An answer never came, which of course irritated him even more.

"First, she wanted half of my money, and now she wants the house too?!" Devon yelled, the anger rising in his throat, "What next, the cars, my career?!"

"The judge didn't rule on anything yet, we can still make sure that most of your assets are still protected," the man calmly responded.

"Most?" Devon asked, his frown deepening even more, "I don't want most of my money, I want to keep every dime that I earned by myself."

The money that he sweated over, cried over, spent his entire adult life working to the bone for. This wasn't fair.

"That's unlikely, Mr. Emmet, she's your wife, she's entitled to some compensation—"

"—We were married for less than two fucking years," Devon growled, his eyes becoming black underneath the shielding of his sunglasses.

He couldn't describe the rage he felt. Being in that courthouse, forced to silence, while watching his lawyer waffle his defence and practically hand the case on a platter made him want to explode. Plus, seeing his ex-wife sitting adjacent to him, smirking and revelling in his misery, drove him up the wall.

She was enjoying making a fool out of him. He supposed that served him right, after he treated their marriage like some cheap hobby for years on end. In some way, he viewed it as a secondary subscription after his work, and in some cases, his pills. However, it was her that pushed him in that corner, Devon believed that wholeheartedly.

However, his lawyer, did not.

"It's not that simple," the man explained, "She was your manager, she's entitled to some of the royalties you've earned—"

"—She's not entitled to shit," Devon spat, "If you don't fix this, I'm firing you."

Like a damn hot potato. The elevator dinged brightly, causing for the doors to slip open. Devon stalked into the fancy shaft, glare still burning a hole through the man's head. As the doors started to slide back closed, he offered the man three last words before he disappeared from his sight.

"Handle it, now."

A warning. A very strict one, at that.

Silence invaded his eardrums. Emotions flared within his veins — crazed and frantic — trying its best to find a calm resting spot inside his panicked mind. However, the chances were getting slim. He rested his thumb against the bridge of his wide nose, trying to remember a time in his life where he was supposedly stress free.

Maybe when he was a fetus, possibly even when he was still in his mother's womb. The dancer angrily shoved his hand in his pocket, feeling the elevator dip as he pried open his empty bottle of pills. Not a single tablet remained, he had already finished the bottle.

Devon let a foul obscenity run by his lips, ready to cuss the heavens and the earth for such a terrible inconvenience. However, just as his knuckles turned white and another curse came out— the doors of the elevator suddenly slid open.

Before Devon could even look up, he heard a voice — low and teasing — dancing through the shaft and tormenting his brain. He had been dreading this moment.

"Still using those, hm?"

Devon slowly looked up, his breath getting thinner the second he looked up and spotted his ex-wife — Deana Adams, or previously known as Deana Emmet — strolling into the elevator. She was a tall-ish woman, coming in at 5'8 inches, with a fuller figure and a beautiful brown complexion. Her face, sharp and angular, came to together in a weathered display of understated beauty. Her eyes, however, normally left an impression on him. They were full and brown, somewhat all-knowing, like any mistake would be discovered in a heartbeat.

She was also older. Sixteen years older than him. Some would say that was much too old for a young man like him to be associated with, however, Devon paid no mind to that kind of talk. In fact, as the woman strolled into the elevator and stood by his side, the only thoughts that seemed to cross his mind were laced with anger. Formalities be damned.

"You're a fucking witch, you know that?" Devon asked, more so a statement than a question.

She rolled her eyes, her suit jacket hugging her curves very tightly, "Save it Devon, you knew this was coming."

He did not.

"I'm not letting you get any of my money," Devon growled, "Not a dime."

That was his money, his earnings. In his view, she didn't deserve any of it. But of course, that seemed to be where they disagreed. One of the many things that tarnished their marriage was too many disagreements. They often went blue in the face from arguing all the time.

"That is my money too," Deana said, turning around to face Devon squarely, "I should be asking for more money for putting up with you for so long."

The rage was reaching new heights.

"You're lucky I'm not going to the press," Deana added, a sentence that made him see red, "I could tell them all of your secrets, and you know that."

Fuck this shit.

Devon stepped forward — straight-faced and monotone — and abruptly grabbed her wrist. He saw the moment her eyes flashed with recognition, no doubt mistaking his coarse touch with something more vulgar. In the past, during the course of their volatile marriage, arguments almost always ended in rough sex.

However, that wasn't the case now.

Devon lifted up her tightened sleeve, and snatched off the small recording device tethered to her wrist. Her eyes flattened with disappointment.

"Recording me, really?" Devon asked, "What, you think I'd say something that you can use in court?"

He scoffed, baffled by the mediocrity in her approach. Deana was normally more calculated than that. However, it appeared that she had more tricks up her sleeve, Devon just didn't know it yet.

"Just give me the money," Deana said, her voice lowering in a serious tone, "If you do, I'll give you more pills."

Devon stilled, the muscles in his face tightening with striking interest.

"Something stronger," she continued, "I'll give it to you, but only if you let me get my fair share of your money."

He stared at her intently, trying to detect the fault in her eyes. He didn't like discussing these things out loud, and yet the mention of more stronger doses of pills made dopamine rush to his brain. It scratched the part in his body that craved this stuff, that lived off it. And he had to admit, he was thoroughly tempted.

Deana was not a good wife, nor was he a good husband. However, she was a good supplier— and she gave him pills that made him feel a bliss like no other.

If Devon was left to ponder on the matter a tad bit longer, perhaps he would've taken the deal. He was tired of faking subscriptions, sneaking around doctors and forging forms. He was running out of luck. He needed more pills, now.

However, when the shaft dinged and the doors slid open, Devon was brought back to his rational mind. He didn't respond. He just took one last conflicting look at her, before he shook his head and walked out the elevator, his throat burning for some other stronger cravings.

Something that made him disappear from here.

◯

Circa. 1996—1997

Devon liked to think it started out as love. It felt like that, anyway. The butterflies, the glow, the adoring glances, it felt like a fairytale at first. Now Devon had to admit, looking back on the whole experience, he was far too idealistic to be jumping into any sort of marriage, but alas, that's just the way things went.

After his breakup with Janet, things went sour for him very fast. On tour, in the early dawnings of 1995, he occupied much of his lovelorn thoughts by various short hookups. Many women flocked to him, and he sort refuge in bedding anyone he could find.

It was sleazy, he knew, but the short fix of sweat, passion and dopamine was a great distraction from the gaping hole that was starting to stretch further into his soul.

"You're single man, enjoy it," Tupac Shakur — a friend that provided Devon with close counsel throughout that time — would say. Whenever Tupac caught the dancer moping, he always tended to make an effort to cheer him up, normally with some cheap humour.

"You got plenty of girls wanting you, who cares 'bout an ex."

Again, Devon appreciated his efforts, but it wasn't that simple. He felt empty. Like a piece of him was now gone. He couldn't just enjoy everything right now. In fact, most of his actions just numbed the pain, it didn't provide any other extended pleasures — besides the pleasure he felt in the moment.

However, Devon tried not to be so cynical. He had to give the rapper credit, since he was normally the one to initiate various outings across town. At clubs, bars and hotspots throughout LA and New York— the two stormed the town as Devon's star power shot into another stratosphere.

Tupac was only trying to be a good friend. However, Devon's hurt ran too deep.

"I am enjoying it," Devon would lie, "I'm havin' a good time, honestly."

He could tell that Tupac did not buy his fake enthusiasm. Nevertheless, the two friends continued their sleazy escapades. But, Devon did not know that that would be the last time he would ever see Tupac, before his unexpected death a few months later.

Devon couldn't say that it was all bad.

He had to admit, the attention was great at first. He was a young man, now highly esteemed as the new leading actor of the 90s. Not only that, but celebrities, supermodels and famous women were calling his phone— begging him, in some way, to bask in the glory. It was a nice feeling, to be wanted.

However, Devon quickly realised how much of the hype was smoke and mirrors. When the screams died and night fell, he was left to deal with his own troubled mind. A mind ravaged by bottled emotions and scary thoughts. A mind that was slowly spiralling into the abyss.

He stayed awake— occupying his nights with sex, pills or working out. However, not even that was enough at times. Now that TJ and Janet was gone, he needed someone else to quiet the storm.

That's when Deana Adams walked into his life. She was forty-four when Devon first met her in 1996. He was twenty-seven. She was hired as his new personal manager by his new team. And boy, she was good.

During that time, Devon's schedule was booked, top to bottom. Movie deals were closed, brand deals and talk show appearances were confirmed front to back. With her managerial skills, Devon's name was gaining even more traction, if that was even possible at that point.

So naturally, Devon started to admire her work ethic. Her handwork, her gusto and command, it captured his attention, and slowly, he began to grow sweet on her. They didn't have much in common — Devon had to admit — but he liked what he felt when he was with her.

He felt assured, safe, like they were on the same wavelength. She was a workaholic like him, had goals and aspirations, and was completely committed to making his career the best it could be. Plus, there was something, motherly about her... he just couldn't put his finger on it. But Devon — in all his hurt and loneliness — must've mistook her drive for romance.

Nevertheless, he still pursued her.

It wasn't hard, nor were there any objections. Once Devon expressed his interest, Deana quickly fell into it fast. They melded together. They shared secrets, fluids, and explored each other in the most intimate manner imaginable. Devon didn't care about the repercussions, he just wanted someone else to suppress his pain.

And she did that, at first.

That is until Deana had the bright idea of getting married. After two months of seeing each other, she latched onto the thought quickly.

"It'll be the best option for us," she had said, a bright smile sitting on her face, "Come on, think about it."

The best option? They'd been seeing together for only a few months, and even then, Devon's relationship status was not disclosed to the public yet. Apparently it best suited his blossoming film career. But now, she was suggesting marriage? He was barely twenty-eight, would this really be the best option?

"I don't know, Deana..." Devon responded, "Married?"

"Yeah, you said you always wanted stability," she stated.

He did say that.

"Plus, it'll be so easy to work together once we're married, we'll get more time to work on your career," she explained, her pitch getting more and more enticing.

"But you've been married before, do you really want to do that again?" Devon asked, recalling the moment that Deana mentioned her previous failed marriage— when she was Devon's age, or possibly younger.

She said it was a mistake, a fluke, something she would never repeat again. And yet, here they were.

"You're not like my ex-husband, Devon," she said, creeping closer to him, "You're young, driven, and you're a winner."

Was he now?

"Or am I wrong?"

Maybe.

They got married a few weeks later. Devon's mother, brother and uncle were in attendance, with most of them being in support of the marriage. Uncle Emmet was skeptical, and Arkell seemed more irritated than anything. The young boy was still holding out hope that his brother would get back together with Janet.

However, that was not going to happen.

The most surprising reaction, as it turned out, was Devon's mother. She was overjoyed. Deana got along well with Pamela Emmet. They were much alike, the more Devon thought about it. They were commanding, maternal and... very particular. Devon took it as a good sign, not knowing that their binding relationship would slowly but surely be the death of him.

Announcements of their marriage was reported in every major newspaper the next day. Paparazzi followed him even more, trying to catch a glimpse of him and his new wife. Whispers about their age difference seemed to be a favourite subject amongst the gossip columnists.

But Devon did not listen to them. He tried to rise above the negativity.

He cared about his wife — he liked having a wife, he just needed the right chance to make this work. He was determined to not let this relationship fail. However, God had other things in mind.

As their marriage continued, in the first few weeks, Devon's strenuous work schedule took a physical toll on him. His body was starting to deteriorate from exhaustion. He was tired, in pain and over the constant supervision from paparazzi and the media. And when he went to his manager— now wife — to express his worries, her reaction was very telling.

"You can't take a break now," she said, her eyes frantic, "Your career's just kicking off."

"But I'm exhausted, I can hardly move," Devon replied, "I think I need to go to the doctor."

"NO!"

Devon flinched, her frantic yell catching him off guard.

"Take these." She reached into the bathroom cupboard, presenting another bottle of pain killers, but this time, a higher dose than his normal usage. His eyes nearly bulged at the sight. "They work better."

He could feel the blood rushing from his face.

"No, n-no," Devon gulped, "TJ said I should stop taking them..."

His sentence trailed off, distantly remembering his estranged friend, and their sour last encounter. He was still filled with guilt at the memory.

"Who's TJ?" Deana asked, but quickly shook her head and swerved the conversation back on its original course, "Devon, you can't afford to let this get in the way of your career, you have to keep going. Now take them."

She shoved the pills in his hand, and with a tentative glance, Devon proceeded to take them.

And so, that cycle continued for the duration of their marriage. Devon's pain persisted, and Deana responded with more pills. Eventually, Devon knew not to come to her anymore, and instead, he gobbled down more drugs to ease his discomfort. The suppression worked splendidly for short-terms effects.

But, he wasn't the only one who had vices.

Deana liked cocaine. And as a result, Devon began to experiment with it, too. It started out as a slow, social mechanism he engaged with— at Hollywood parties and with his wife, in the privacy of their own home. However, as time went on and the stress of his career began to weigh down on him, he used it more frequently.

Although, nothing quite surpassed his use of opioids and pain supplements. He didn't want to admit it, but he was falling into a very unsustainable pattern, of taking, and being taken from.

So, it wasn't very surprising that as a result, his marriage began to break down from the outside in. They argued constantly. Deana always had a say on what direction she wanted Devon's career to go in. While he preferred to stay true to his urban roots, she opted for a much more sophisticated career trajectory, straying away from his street edge.

Their bickering made Devon feel like a paper doll. Always being dressed up, played with, and torn apart. His wife was more invested in his career more than himself. He realised that now. So, he shoved her away and instead focussed on his work, and drugs.

Eventually however, when the fights became too much and the noise became too loud, Devon filed for divorce at the end of 1997.

A choice — he'd come to know — would not come lightly. A choice, which would ultimately result in him hanging from a balcony in the dawn of 1998.

◯

"How was your day today, baby?" Devon's mother sipped from her wine and leaned back in the chair, watching as her eldest son silently munched on the greens from his golden plate. Around him, his uncle and little brother sat on either side of the clear glass table. They were quiet, and waited diligently for him to respond.

His answer, however, instantly killed the mood.

"I was at court," Devon blandly replied, "Wasn't very interesting."

A huge understatement, but his family didn't need to know the nitty gritty details.

"I still don't know why you divorced Deana, she was a good woman for you," Pamela casually said, a sentence that did not help him in the slightest.

"No, she wasn't," Arkell hissed, "I don't like her."

And he never did. Whenever Deana would try to make an effort to bond with Arkell, he always pushed her away. Devon didn't know why, but right now, he was glad of his brother's resistance. Knowing Deana, she would've in some way milked that in her divorce suit.

"Hey, listen up," Devon spoke, swiftly changing the subject from the rather grim topic, "I'm going to the Oscars next week, and I need someone to come with me, to the show and everything."

"Don't worry dear, I've already got an outfit picked out," Devon's mother spoke before the dancer could even finish. He grimaced, shaking his head before she got the wrong idea.

"Actually... I wanted Arkell to come with me," Devon said, his hopeful eyes switching over to his little brother, who stared back at him dumbfounded, "But only if you want to."

"But I thought I was grounded?" Arkell asked.

"I think I was too hard on you," Devon replied, his gaze softening, "I think it'll be good for us to get out. What do you say?"

Even Arkell couldn't deny how exciting it was to attend the Academy Awards, despite how much he tried to cover it in teenage nonchalance. In fact, Devon was so fixated on his brother's reaction, that he didn't even noticed the pinched anger that began to penetrate his mother's face.

In his mind, he only had one agenda.

So naturally, when Arkell slowly nodded and agreed with his suggestion, Devon did not bother hiding his elation. "Um, okay," Arkell said.

Perhaps for the first time today, Devon smiled, genuinely.

"I think that's a great idea, Dev," uncle Emmet pitched in, praising his two nephews, "A great—"

The older man suddenly erupted into a coughing fit, a sharp, scratchy sound emitting from his lips as he covered mouth, trapping what Devon presumed was bundles of phlegm.

Devon's face immediately sharpened with concern, "—Woah unc, you alright?"

He nodded frantically, "Yeah, my throat is just sore."

"You want some tea?"

"No, I'm fine."

Devon left it at that, despite the fact that he noticed the tinge of fear that invaded his uncle's eyes. However, Devon just put his head down and continued chewing, hoping that a few more bites could distract him from the terrible doubts and fears that echoed through his skull.

The call of the beast.

When dinner ended, he bid farewell to his mopey mother — now bitter from his lack of invitation to a prestigious award event — as well as his secretive uncle, who tried to hide the napkin that he coughed into, from Devon's sight. Devon ignored their troubles, because for once, he felt exhausted by the thought.

Arkell and him stepped up the golden, spiralled staircase, heading off to their designated bedrooms on the large, second floor. And to Devon's surprise, the lanky teen was much more talkative tonight.

"Have you heard Janet's new album?" Arkell asked, a sentence that made Devon's head creak to his left.

"Um... no?" the male frowned.

"It's really good," Arkell replied, "People are saying that a lot of the songs are about you."

So he's heard. The tabloids were going crazy, claiming that Janet's songs, about heartbreak and yearned callings, were dedicated to him, her ex. And while Devon only heard radio snippets of Janet's new music, he often wondered himself if the rumours were true. However, if he thought about that for too long, he just ended up going in circles.

So, with a humble smile, Devon shook his head, denying the speculation. "That's just talk," he said.

Arkell didn't seem to buy it, but he didn't press his brother any further. The two brothers stepped through the sleek, modern hallway, looking down on the golden chandelier that dangled into the front foyer. Devon's hand idled on the smooth wooden railing, melancholy flushing over him.

No matter how many times he walked through this house, it still felt... new. It didn't feel lived in, or occupied. It was just... new. Maybe Arkell sensed his brother's misery, maybe that's why he said his next words.

"I miss her," the teenage boy whispered, a sentence caught him by surprise, "I miss how it used to be."

He did too.

"I miss how you used to dress, too," Arkell added.

Devon snorted back a laugh, ruffling the Italian silk shirt that adorned his body, accompanied by a beige blazer and matching slacks. "Why? So you could steal all my clothes?" Devon joked, nudging his brother playfully.

Arkell rolled his eyes, his shoulder now almost level with Devon's own. Sure, he was still skinnier, and lacked the proper weight that came with being a grown man, but he was maturing rapidly. Devon was watching it all go by so fast, and for what? For his career? That won't do.

"Hey, want to hang out with me tomorrow? I'm going to a wedding," Devon suddenly said, his second proposal for the night now earning a fully-fledged frown from his younger brother.

"A wedding?" He asked.

"Mhm, a lot of celebrities will be there," Devon said, "Maybe I can even introduce you to a few girls, hm?"

Arkell's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Devon knew his brother wasn't very forward when it came to girls, and as far he knew, the young boy has yet to be express an interest with one. But, he supposed that was apart of the whole bonding experience. He had to teach his brother these things, even if he himself was severely unsuccessful in the romance department.

But, Arkell's shy smile completely wiped away Devon's worries. "Okay," Arkell meekly said.

"Cool," Devon grinned, "And by the way, I'm sorry for what I said the other day."

Arkell raised his head, memories of their previous argument flashing through his mind.

"You're not a disappointment," Devon said, the guilt eating him alive, "I love you, I always will, and I just want what's best for you, okay?"

He patted his brother's shoulder before giving it an affectionate squeeze. He meant it entirely, but Arkell avoided his eyes, for some reason, finding it difficult to digest his words. Devon felt his heart sinking down with despair. However, he did not choose to express himself further, fearing that it would only steer the young man away.

So, with another friendly smile, Devon patted Arkell's skinny arm before turning on his heel, "Now get some sleep."

And with that, he headed over to his master bedroom.

Devon slickly navigated his way through the art pieces and tasteful hallway decorations, before he entered the large double doors that led into his bedroom. It was a large, broad room, with rugs, sleek colour splashes and the most modern ensuite and closet known to man.

Back in Harlem, Devon's entire apartment was smaller than his walk-in, and sometimes, he struggled to comprehend his steep trajectory. So, as the male neatly folded his silk shirt, and climbed into his sweats and du-rag, he examined his bare upper body in the darkness of the moonlit room.

Devon sat on the edge of the bed, tracing his muscled, veiny forearm, the skin now punctured with marks and dots from the rare— well — not-so-rare times he's experimented with needles. Often times, when the pain got too much, and his mind was too overbearing, he would inject himself for optimal effects.

Other times, he would swallow, or snort them up.

The young man shuddered, suddenly disgusted by the thought. He looked to his cream-textured bedside table, cluttered with a recent newspaper that the maid must've brought in. Devon reached forward and flicked through the articles, unsurprisingly, seeing his name plastered on every headline.

'DEVON EMMET? PHONEY? FAKE?'

'FANS TURN ON THE DANCING SUPERSTAR'

'DEVON EMMET AND EX-WIFE BEGIN DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS'

Devon's jaw clenched, flipping through the pages with disdain. He stopped on a single page, the headline capturing his attention.

'DEVON EMMET DOES NOT DESERVE AN OSCAR'.

His heart banged against his ribcage, the words torturing him completely.

'He was a mediocre dancer, and an even more mediocre actor who has forgotten who he is and where he's from. He's completely changed in order to fit in with 'Hollywood', and he's become a sellout,' the article read.

However, that wasn't even the best part. Devon stared plainly at five words printed within the same paragraph, a simple phrase that evoked the worst kind of feeling in his own mind: doubt, and fear.

'He doesn't deserve his success. What happened to the Drum?'

What happened to him, Dev?

Devon stood up, tearing the thin thread of paper in little pieces, watching as it trickled to the carpet and settled near his feet. He paced around, his stomach knotting with anxiety, feeling that infamous feeling caving in on his mind.

The sky was falling.

What did his therapist call it again? A panic attack? Devon crouched down, the evil voices and cruel headlines pounding against his skull. Maybe it was true. He didn't deserve this, he didn't deserve to be here.

Period.

Just as the thought tortured his mind, Devon stared at his open window, thinking about how much more painless it would feel to fall, hit the ground and end his fate. How much easier it would to be to give in, and accept the call of the beast.

It was only a matter of time.

◯

a/n;

Damn... Devon is truly going through the pits. I feel very sorry for him, a lot of negativity is in his mind right now.

In this chapter, we got some backstory to Devon's ex-wife, Deana. What do you guys think of her? What do you think of their short-lived marriage? Was it as you expected? And how do you think Devon was effected by the entire experience?

Also, Devon's mental health is declining. Do you guys think that therapy will turn his life around, or do you think he has to experience some more pain?

Let me know! Y'all don't even know how much more intense this will get...